Weird

My stepdaughter thinks we are weird. We = her dad and me. Mostly him, because he was at the school, doing a science demo in her brother’s class, and he stopped by her lunch period to sit with her. With his guitar.

His presence there was clearly the Worst Thing Ever. She literally kicked him out. Poor dad was puzzled because at home she is affectionate and very trusting of him. They often have long, serious conversations while I make fart sounds for the little boys.

I get it. She’s in 4th grade and the popular girls are in her class. And they saw her and her dad (with said guitar) in the lunch room. Totally weird.

My mind went to 7th grade when I had 3 friends, a girl who went to a different school, and two boys. I don’t know what it was about me, but the girls were mean. I suppose I was an easy target. I was a late bloomer, a bit naive, a dedicated student.

One morning, I wore a new hooded sweatshirt (a Chanukah present from a cool store in the mall) to school. It had multicolored stripes. I felt very grown up for my 12 years. As I was waiting outside for the bell to ring, The Most Popular Girl walked up to me. I though she was going to tell me how cool my shirt was. Score.

Nope. She told me never to wear it again. She already had it, and I knew that when I bought it, and how dare I wear it to school. What if we had dressed alike. How embarrassing. And she stomped off, laughing with her friends.

That is my memory of it. I don’t really remember much about 6th and 7th grade. My mom says I cried most days after school from one horrible incident with the Popular Girls or another.

It is kind of pathetic, but I still worry about my friends. It is difficult for me to see my friendships clearly. There were times in middle school where I was close enough to popular to be invited to birthday parties and to the mall. But something would happen, I have no idea what, and I wasn’t good enough any more.

I’m an adult now with a husband, children, a house. I don’t worry about wearing the same clothes as anyone, but I still don’t feel confident in my friendships. Thanks, a lot, Bitches.

I can see, looking back, that the way I dealt with them is the same way I deal with impossible people now. I wonder if that is just Me or if I can really change my reactions, change my flight into a fight.

I wonder how my life would be different if I hadn’t experienced that bullying in middle school. Would I have pushed myself in a different direction without fear of rejection? Would I still be trying to shape myself into someone else to fit in?

I wonder how to help my step daughter. She is quiet, studious, pretty. Will she have the courage to stand up for her love of math and science? Will she be able to find a group of friends that she likes and that like her?

Being a girl is hard.

Something good

Abraham sits on the floor with a wooden spoon, 2 small mixing bowls, and an empty gallon jug of milk. He stirs the spoon around the bowl, picks up the milk jug and pours it into the bowl, puts it down, reclaims his spoon and finishes mixing. He is completely focused and completely open to play. (Now he puts the milk jug in the drawer of baking things).

This creative-drama teaching-mama couldn’t be prouder.

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Bubby, my maternal grandmother, swears she was the first one to play pretend with me, sitting on her porch, “eating” ice cream. Did that event lead to who I have become? Will Abraham carry the memory (probably not consciously) of this free play and continue to play as a child, teenager, and adult? I don’t even mean in the theatre, I mean in his whole life.

(now he is trying to balance the milk jug upside down in the other bowl)

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I see him working so hard, playing so hard. I observe him, narrate what he does, add in objects to compliment his play. But then it is time for a diaper change and he screams, throws his head back, and tries to escape my evil clutches.

And I think to myself, I must do this too. In what parts of my own life do I rear my head back and try to escape?

And I think he and I have the same reasons: lack of control. When we play, we are free. But then we have to change the diaper and leave the comfort of freedom behind.

It is so hard to be a baby. So easy too. I’m so grateful for the time to see him struggle and see him be free.

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Jeans

I remembered something!

Ok – I LOVE shopping at Thrift Stores. Also consignment shops, but Thrift Stores really have my heart and mind. And I buy used clothing almost exclusively (socks…underwear….).

I have many reasons, including: I don’t like spending lots of money on things, especially clothes; I believe in reuse and try to live that belief; I like the search and the find!; and more…

But.

I don’t know if it is really working out for me on all fronts. I did just score a great fall jacket from the Goodwill Outlet (giant tables of random clothes and things to sort through), and I find board books in great condition for 47¢ for Abraham on a regular basis. But…the Butt. I need a good pair of jeans and I can’t find them.

I’ve been thinking that maybe it is worth it to spend the money on a pair (or two? now I’m getting really indulgent) of jeans that fit me and that I really like. I’ve probably spent as much money on mediocre jeans as I could have on a pair that actually fit. And the time I’ve spent searching…

And I don’t like the idea of buying clothing brand new, especially when there are so many decent pairs of jeans at Goodwill, waiting for me to hem/belt/wear with a big shirt so no one sees my butt crack when I sit on the floor. But I will wear them to the end. I have a pair that I bought new in 2005. Still wearing them, faded and with holes in the knees. Maybe next summer they will be shorts.

I mentioned this to my mom (who loves shopping) and she was delighted. She even offered to go with me and buy me a pair.

Not big, dramatic, life-changing stuff here, but it feels like an adult thing to do. To spend money on the right thing rather than being thrifty and trying to make the wrong thing work. And for me, that is a big deal. I’m an adult. Thank, Jeans.

Best Supporting Actor

I am a sensitive person, perhaps oversensitive. I get upset for my family members when they are mistreated. I take it personally. It burns me up, consuming my mind, as I try to understand the logic or rationale behind someone else’s actions.

The other night, as I was angrily nursing Abraham to sleep (angry at a situation, not my precious nursling), I had a possibly life changing realization. Something I have known but finally sunk in.

It isn’t about me.

Do you ever watch a movie or read a book and feel like you are the main character? This happens to me a lot, I feel like I take on the emotional life of the main character. (Side note: I once took an empathy test, an online test to see if you have Asperger’s syndrome (I don’t) and I scored way above normal on empathy.) I think this is happening to me in real life too. I’m taking on someone else’s anger. I’m letting myself be hurt by actions that were not meant for me.

I have become the supporting actor in my own movie. My life isn’t about me.

That sounds strange to say, maybe even depressing, but after a moment, I found it to be freeing. My job here, in the movie now, is to support, is to let someone else’s story shine.

I had my chance (David said, when I had accomplished my career goal of acting professionally and burned out at 28, that I hit my mid-life crisis.) – I have had my dream job, I have travelled to amazing places and had great adventures, I have pursued my passions, I am experiencing true love.

As a mother to an infant, it is hard impossible to keep the starring role. A friend told me, after I quit my job (one of them…) after I realized I couldn’t keep up with it and a baby, that “Women could have it all, just not at the same time.” Maybe that isn’t true for everyone, but it is for me. I thought I could do all things, be all things, all at the same time. But I can’t. And it is ok. It is even really good for me to learn that lesson. Abraham needs me now in a way he never will again. I want to enjoy it, not rush through it.

As a step-mother, I definitely don’t have the starring role. Step-parenting is a supporting position. Again, it is ok. The kids need supportive adults in their lives. I am not their mom, but I am one of their parents, and I try to be present for them without being pushy. I’m waiting stage left in case they need me.

As a stay-at-home wife, I’m a supporting actor too. I’m obviously contributing to the family, taking care of keeping the house clean, full of food (sometimes even cooked food!), comfortable, and alive. Not literally, but you know…functioning for all of us. David comes home from work and talks to me about interesting physics he figured out (and that I don’t really understand), and I tell him how much dog hair I vacuumed up and the cute thing Abraham did that day. Not exactly world changing stuff from me, but if I weren’t doing it, our family’s world would be very different.

I’ve been reflecting on my personality lately, and I don’t even know if I am main character material. I am shy. I don’t like talking to people I don’t know. I don’t really like talking on the phone to anyone (except my family). I have passion, but not ambition. I am a quiet leader, preferring to lead by example than to rally the masses. This is not necessarily the make up of a main character.

I keep telling myself that in 5 years, Abraham will go to school and I can be a person again. I can begin to take my time rather than stealing it. I can really practice yoga again, make theatre, engage in my community. Until then, I’ll be here when you need me.

Woman

My good friend, the Incredible Exploding Head, just wrote a great piece about being a Woman. Mostly having to do with being a Mother vs. Not. She got me thinking about my own mother-ness.

I had a rough day. I’ve had a rough series of days. I shouldn’t: I have a sweet, funny baby who is very easy going, a devoted and kind husband, a comfortable home, some interesting work. Even friends. In town. Nearby!

But I have very little time that is my own. Which I expected when I decided to have a baby. But I didn’t realize how intense it would be to be needed all the time.

I think of myself as an introvert and an extrovert. I usually feel shy, not quite knowing what to say, but at the same time, wanting to be with people. I used to (wait, I still do) work/write at a cafe, not in my home office (what home office – ha!). I like taking classes. I like sitting in audiences. I don’t really like talking in front of people (acting is different…).

The introvert part of me needs alone time to reboot. A 7 minute shower every morning isn’t enough.

Most people don’t talk about this part of being a mother. The part where you stop being you.

I keep thinking to myself, when Abraham goes to school, I will practice yoga for real. I will start a theatre company. I will read books quickly. I will be me again.

This is a terrible approach. I am me. I am the same person who wanted to have a baby in the first place. If I put myself on the shelf (sorry for that rhyme), how can I be a good mother, dare I say my ideal mother, for Abraham? How can I be a good wife, step mother, friend, anything? Much less artist, teacher, leader…

I feel terrible every time I leave Abraham with a babysitter or even David, because I love leaving. I love going to the coffee shop with my laptop and writing. I love going to the yoga studio and teaching. I love meeting my friend for lunch and brainstorming theatre ideas for the company we want to get off the ground.

Which is not to say that I don’t love being with him. I do. I do so much. I love watching him discover the world. I love that when he cries a little, it shocks me because I think of him as a person not really a baby. I love watching him eat, sleep, poop, laugh, read…everything. But I love it most when I feel most like myself. Which is when I spend some time taking care of my, not him, not David, not anyone else.

I wish I could do both and not feel bad about either.

So, like the Head, who got my brain going in the first place (Head, you are so good at that. I miss you!),  I want to make the next part of my like pretty fucking cool. In Reading, PA.

I’ve got to figure out how to start.

Safety

I’m in a bit of a bind.

I don’t know who reads this and how much I really want to say (I realize how annoying that is and I’m sorry), but I need to process a bit.

Here’s the thing. We’re Jewish (which you probably know) and belong to a congregation here in Reading. It has recently come to my attention that a non-Jew (who is married to a non-Jew) has joined the congregation and joined a committee that I also just joined. This person has threatened and bullied me and my family in the past and I do not feel safe. I would like to leave said congregation. And, of course, the committee.

This person is not the only reason, but more the carrot that tipped the scale. I prefer to practice Judaism in a different way that is practiced at this congregation. I want to raise my child in a different way. The people (otherwise) are lovely and the Rabbi is really wonderful. But this is my faith and my spiritual practice. I should like going and praying there, right? And I should feel safe.

The problem is, I don’t want to let the bully win. I want to be indifferent; this is what yoga teaches, to be indifferent toward vice. I don’t know what Judaism teaches. Note taken.

Perhaps I will speak to both Rabbis of both congregations in town to see what Judaism suggests I do. Am I prejudiced for not wanting a non-Jew in the congregation? Am I caving to a bully? Am I just doing what is best for me and my family by leaving? What would you do?

Sigh. Growing up kind of sucks sometimes.

UPDATE: With encouragement from my husband, I have decided to push through and stay. Two main reasons I am ok with this: First World Problems and Impermanence.

David recently showed me a video, a rap song called First World Problems. It is hilarious and a good reminder that people are dealing with real, life and death problems. This is not that (I hope).

AND, my yoga teacher once said (in response to me saying i wasn’t sleeping well due to having a tiny baby) “Impermanence, baby” and I think that rings true here. It is true with Abraham, who is growing up faster than I could have imagined. With this charming person (you can’t tell sarcasm on a blog, can you…?), it will pass. Someone will move on, perhaps the relationship will change for the better. Nothing is permanent.

 

Natural

Abraham was recently pictured on Natural Parents’ Network on their Wordless Wednesdays feature about food. After he was pictured and I shared the link with my family and friends, I wondered to myself if I am actually a natural parent. What does that really mean?

There is a long list of what it means to be a natural parent on their website.

I prepared to have a natural birth at a birth center, but I found on my due date that Abraham was breech, so we had a c-section and it wasn’t so bad.

We went around and around about the decision, but we circumsized Abraham because we are Jewish and that heritage is important to us, even though we still wrestle with our choice.

I nurse Abraham and intend to as long as we both are enjoying it, but I also supplement his nursing with formula to keep him on the right weight track.

He sleeps with us, but I’m looking forward to getting would love to get him to sleep on his own so I can have a little space and time back to myself.

I fed him food at 4.5 months old (which is a bit early) but he was full-body-lunging for it. I also give him food that is not organic or local. Local is preferred, but the child loves avocados, which aren’t exactly native to Pennsylvania.

I have 3 different baby carriers, all of which I love to use, but damn, it is nice to push him in a stroller in this hot weather.

We are vaccinating Abraham on a regular schedule. We feel it is our responsibility to him and to our community to ensure that diseases that have died out stay gone.

What is most true is that I hate all of these parenting labels. They are shortcuts, sure, but they are also pegboards. I never have enjoyed being pegged (though I think I’m pretty predictably peg-able…) in any position, especially being a mother.

So that’s it. I’m a mother. I’m a step mother. Those describe my relationships to my kids. That is all. Every choice I make as either is not because I’m a natural parent, a free-range parent, a whatever parent. It is just because I’m a parent and I’m always trying to do the right thing for each of my kids.

Eating is Yoga

So much of Abraham’s life has been so easy. He is adorable, happy, healthy, easy-going…I could go on. And I have found being a mother (not just a step-mother) to be quite easy too. I’m a little sleepy and a little slobbered-on, but I really can’t complain.

I keep rubbing up against his eating. I’ve written before about breast feeding him. I am still breastfeed him, and I intend to as long as he wants to (the WHO recommends 2 years!). We also give him bottles as a supplement, 8 or 10 ounces a day. I hate it. Every time I give him a bottle, I feel like I’m failing as a mother. Because I WANT to nurse him and I CAN’T. Because in 2003, I choose to have a breast reduction. It was badly needed and I don’t actually regret it. I just wish I could have both small boobs and milky boobs.

We went to the pediatrician today and Abraham is still small. Gaining weight and height, but a little too slowly. So more formula for him and solid food.

The food I’m excited about. He wants to eat – he sits on my lap at dinner and lunges toward the tables, reaches for my water glass, and of course puts everything, edible or not, into his mouth. I even shared my banana with him last night – he sort of licked it a while, then tried to suck. He yelped when it was finished.

He yelps when his bottles are finished too. He is hungry (how ironic that he is wearing his Very Hungry Caterpillar outfit today…”but he was still hungry”). He isn’t starving, but he wants more. And it is so hard for me to give it to him. Because every bottle feels like a failure.

I run to him when he cries from a nap, I kiss his tummy to make him laugh, I work so hard to give him a happy and comfortable life. Why can’t I enjoy feeding him a bottle?

David said to me, on our way home from the pediatrician’s office, “it doesn’t seem very yogic to not feed him” and I know it isn’t. It is selfish, it is my ego wrapped up in my identity as a breastfeed-er. I have met most of my mom friends at La Leche League for goodness sake.

I can still be a breastfeed-er and give my child a bottle or 3 to make sure he grows well. He will get the health benefits from breastmilk and breastfeeding and the caloric benefits from formula. I can snuggle him as he drinks his bottle and snap photos when he holds it himself.

How is this practicing yoga, you ask? Yoga is defined several times in the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. My favorite sutra (literally thread, a piece of an idea) of late is 1.12: Abhyasa vairagyabhyam tan nirodhah – The mind is stilled by practice and dispassion.

Parenting, like yoga, is a practice. It is done uninterruptedly, with devotion, over a long time (sutra 1.14). My goal as a parent, especially to Abraham (versus the big kids where I am a secondary parent as their step-mom), is to be completely present for him and give him what he needs but then step back and let him fly. Giving him bottles is part of that.

And now I will wipe the tears out of my eyes and get a bottle ready for when he wakes up from his nap (to give him after he nurses of course).

so proud of his hand-to-mouth dexterity

ADDITION: Friends, don’t worry. I may feel like a failure of a mother inside, but I know he will be ok and I will be ok. It is a feeling and only a feeling. I appreciate your kind, private words of encouragement.

Things

I am overwhelmed.

Why did I think it would be a good idea to teach theatre, teach yoga, run a small religious school, and work on writing a play in the months after having a baby? Not to forget my family, the house, and myself. Oh dear.

Up until January 6, 2011 (when Abraham was born), I always kept myself very busy and did well. The busier the better, most of the time. I carefully packed my days with all the things I enjoyed.

I have not only added “Bio-mom” to my list of labels (because I was already a step-mom), but moved it way, way to the top of the list. I love it and wouldn’t trade it, but it is overwhelming. Abraham wants to be held when he is awake, and he wants to be nursing while he is asleep. So much touching. Which is what I wanted, but I didn’t realize how intense it would be.

In the short times that Abraham is not touching me, I am desperately doing things I can’t do with him: showering, laundry, dishes, working, yoga. Yoga comes last.

I am about to turn 30 (which I was thinking was making me an adult for real, but in fact, I think it is really young). I was feeling like I needed to do things I’ve been wanting to do: have a real job again (instead of 4 small ones), join boards, make a big difference. But I think what I am realizing is that I want fewer commitments now. I have time. Hopefully lots of time. I can get a real job when I’m 40 and still get to do it for a long time. I can join boards when I’m 50 and still serve my community for a long time. I can make a big difference when I’m 60 and still be younger than my friend Lane was when she joined the Peace Corps.

What has been my hurry? Why are we all in such a hurry?

I don’t anticipate having more children (sorry, Mom) because 3 is enough. But it means Abraham will be my only baby. Which is ok, babies are hard. But I don’t want to fret about his sleep because I need to do things during his nap time. I want to cuddle up and sniff his little head.

you can come cuddle with him too

Oh My Gods

I got to practice yoga. I felt like myself again.

David held the napping baby, and at first I ran around, eating and cleaning up. Then I remembered…me time. I have who-knows-how-long to do whatever-I-want. David, the best husband in the world, can get me food and tidy the kitchen. What can I do for myself that he can’t? YOGA!

I brought my bolster and other props to the living room to be near my guys. I did a short but glorious pranayama practice – I breathed my way back to myself.

Abraham woke up right as I finished, and as I nursed him, I sent a message to my yoga teacher to tell her I was back! Her response:

Tada drastuh svarupe ‘vasthanam
Then (once the mind becomes still) the seer abides in it’s true nature.
-Patanjali, the Yoga Sutras, chapter 1, v.3

Yoga brings me closer to my Self (capital intentional). Being a mother brings me closer to my Self too. My job now is to find a way to practice yoga and motherhood.

Which reminds me of another sutra:

abhyasa vairagyabhyam tan nirodhah

Practice and detachment are the 2 pillars of yoga. I think they might also be pillars of parenthood – work hard, do the best you can, and then let it go.

I keep thinking about this sutra in a big sense – I have not been able to practice in a while due to the birth of my dear child. I have been trying to detach from my own practice – not in the sense of letting go of it altogether but just letting go of the dependency. I’m still Me whether I practice yoga today or this week or this month. At this point, the yoga is in me, waiting patiently.